Although every fiber in my being compelled me toward ripped fishnets, hot pants, sparkle and faux bodily deformation (it's this which separates Gaga from Ke$ha, in the pop star rolodex of my mind), I had to show some restraint.
The tickets came courtesy of an engineer at The Boyfriend's firm. We'd be in a company suite, amongst associates of the professional sort. I had questions. Questions like: How much glitter is too much glitter? How much pants is too little pants? And on the sliding scale between vigorous and suggestive dancing, where to Naomi Campbell walk, Naomi Campbell walk the line?
In the end I hit up Forever 21 (at 26) for something shiny but with appropriate cover. Turns out I needn't have worried: If there is such a thing as too much self-love, Lady Gaga fans have it. There is a lot of self acceptance in the room, and not a lot of shame. Compared to the other attendees — some of whom were in caution tape-as-pasties, others in full light-up body cages, and all in an array of body types — I wouldn't have made an eye bat, much less a jaw drop.
If the fans weren't distracting enough, there was Gaga herself. Proclaiming herself ruler of all for having birthed the audience via her "mother monster pussy," crawling out of an inflatable womb (complete with spread-eagle legs) and delivering, in turns, disarmingly genuine thanks and speeches that were as utterly nonsensical as they were bizarre.
"I wouldn't be here today without you." Makes sense enough.
"You are me." Wait, what?
"I am you." How... would that be possible. You just said I was you. WHO AM I
"Thank you. You're welcome." I... don't have a polite response for this. You've used them all.
Even if Gaga's mother monster/alien super-race rebellion message didn't stick, her near-constant IDGAF proclamations may have rubbed off a little.
Where everyday workday annoyances might have gotten to me pre-Gaga, on this fine Friday I was feeling a little less this
And a little more this
Mahvelous.
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